


half agony, half hope

by carnival_papers, icicaille



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Epistolary, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/pseuds/icicaille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as Javert and Valjean's friendship blossoms with the possibility of becoming something more, Javert is transferred to a new post far from Paris. Forced to communicate solely through letters, they begin to reveal the true depths of their feelings for one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 27 March 1833, five o’clock in the evening

**Author's Note:**

> Javert's letters by [icicaille](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille). Valjean's letters by [carnival_papers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers).

27 March 1833, five o’clock in the evening  
The Post of the Place du Châtelet  
  
To M. Ultime Fauchelevent.  
  
I write this in great haste. No doubt you will have noticed my absence at supper by now—regrettable but necessary. I have been called away from Paris and I do not think I shall return for some time. I would ask you not to worry, but I know you will pay me no heed and do it anyway. Truly, I am fine. Be well, Fauchelevent. You will hear from me shortly.  
  
Javert, Inspector of the First Class


	2. 27 March 1833

27 March 1833  
55 Rue Plumet, Paris

Javert—

As you likely expected, I have been worrying since you did not appear for supper. It is not like you to be absent with such little notice, and of course your presence and conversation were greatly missed. I have not eaten supper alone in many weeks now; I have forgotten how unsettling quiet can be. Indeed, I could hardly eat without you there, I was so consumed with worry.

I fear that I am at fault for your sudden departure. I am certain that my behavior in the garden must have vexed you or otherwise left you confused. I confess, I ventured there this evening, just before I sat to compose this, and I could not bring myself to stay there for long. It is wrong to be there without you—terribly lonely. You left so suddenly that evening, I am sure you think I did not enjoy our night there.

In truth, I have scarcely thought of anything else since. I cannot forget your face, so close to mine, or the weight of your hands on my shoulders. How my world shifted in only a moment, as though you had commanded it. I do not think it possible to return to however it was before.

Whatever the cause of your leave, I pray that you are safe, and, selfishly, I pray that you will not be kept from Paris for long. Since Cosette's marriage to Baron Pontmercy, I see so little of her. Your companionship has been quite dear to me; I am only just growing used to having you around. Return soon—or, if that is not possible, write soon. Please forgive me for my failure not to worry.

U.F.

 


	3. 10 April 1833

10 April 1833  
16 Rue Narbonne, Sommières

Fauchelevent—

I am sorry I could not write earlier. I have been traveling some two weeks—ample time to compose a letter, you might think, but my companions could not leave me be for a single moment on our journey, day or night. They are dolts, the lot of them, grown men who cavort from tavern to tavern as if they were schoolboys. Naturally, they have been appointed as my colleagues.

Here is what I could not say in the contents of my last letter: I have been transferred to Sommières—for how long, I do not know. It is a small village in the Languedoc, perhaps an hour’s ride from Montpellier. The previous inspector of Sommières, along with his entire detail of sergeants, was abruptly dismissed last month for some infraction involving the statue of Charles V in the town square. The local prefecture demanded replacements immediately, and it fell to me to relieve their burden. I am expendable in Paris, I suppose, though I would have preferred to remain here until the end. Paris is where I belong now, I think.

Yet when I told the prefect this, he laughed at me. “Javert,” he said, “you certainly have some gall.” I am sure he means the letter I wrote last summer—you know very well which one—that has left me on tenterhooks ever since. He means that I should be grateful for my continued employment, that I should kneel and kiss his boots for having the kindness to retain me after submitting such an incendiary note. He did not have to tell me that my good fortune would suddenly cease should I refuse the transfer. I am ashamed to admit it, but I could not say no, not when I still owe him everything. I do not know what I would do without my work—it has been my world for so long—so I told the prefect I would depart the next morning. He bade me good day, and I left his office and wrote to you straightaway.

This town is what I thought Montreuil might be when I first received the news of my assignment some fifteen years ago: narrow dirt roads encircled by walls of stone, tall green fields in the distance. Inhabited largely by busybodies and old maids, of course.

Last night we arrived just as the sun set. The light gleamed so brightly off the hills beyond the fields that I had to shield my eyes lest it blind me, but I could not turn away. I thought of you, then—how you would sit on that old bench in the garden at twilight, reading or simply staring at the setting sun. It is a sight of which I have grown quite fond.

The last time we saw each other there, in the garden, I did something to which I hope you will apply some of your vaunted mercy. I could not say what came over me, only that it must have been madness or some other failure of the mind. If you say we cannot return to however it was before, very well, but know, at least, that it was never my desire to command you. I took a liberty that was not mine to take, and all I can remember is how wide your eyes looked when I stepped away from you, and how I would rather endure a thousand beatings than ever cause you terror or suffering again. I do not expect you to forgive me, but I pray for it all the same.

And, in turn, I forgive your worrying, if only because it means you are still thinking of me as I think of you. How are you? Are your roses in bloom yet? Write to me.

Javert

 


	4. 25 April 1833

25 April 1833  
55 Rue Plumet, Paris

Javert—

What a relief it was to finally receive your letter! You cannot possibly know how filled with dread I have been these past few weeks. Cosette, bless her, must have taken notice of it, as she has spent several days here with me, reading and assisting me in the garden. I admit, I am happy to have her in the house again, but she is no substitute for your incomparable wit and demeanor.

Sommières—I have only heard of it in passing, and never been there myself. Does it suit you? They are lucky to have you, and no doubt Paris will be mourning your loss shortly. This does explain the sudden increase of gamins near the station-house—you are not there to scare them away! However shall we function without you, Inspector? I am sure the prefect will be begging you to return in no time.

As shall I, of course. What a strange, cruel thing, to grow so used to one's presence and have it stripped away without warning. I believe I miss you more with each night that passes. It has been too long since we squabbled about God and tea and which vegetables to plant. My days are too quiet, too calm, without you here. If ever you find yourself worrying that I have forgotten you, or that I no longer wish for you to be here, worry not. Hardly an hour has passed in which I did not long for you in some capacity.

Javert, I must tell you—you need not ask for my mercy, as it is always yours. I promise that what occurred caused me neither terror nor suffering. If you believe it to have been an act of madness, then, very well. I shall try my best to put it out of my mind. But that will be no easy task, not when I think of our long conversations and quiet evenings and you, always you, in every moment I spend in the garden. I hope you will not think less of me for it.

You must tell me more about Sommières. How does it compare to Paris? Is the work fulfilling? Truly, I cannot imagine a Paris without you in it. The people of Sommières do not know what a gift they have received in you. Even with your work, I hope you will find some leisure there. A change of scenery might be pleasant. Tell me all there is to tell about it—what is your morning walk like? Is it very green? Do you smell baking bread as the sun is still rising? I suppose I should like to see it as you do, through your eyes, like a place in a book. If I cannot be there with you, then hearing (or reading, to be correct) of it shall have to do.

I am well, or as well as I can be without you here. My roses have just begun to bloom, yes. They are a beautiful shade of pink—like the sky just before dusk, when the sun is low against the horizon and the world is all cast in amber. I long to watch the sun set with you once more, and to sit with you on that old bench in the garden. If we sat there now, you would be able to smell my roses. Perhaps they might make you sneeze.

Thank you for your forgiveness regarding my worrying. I shall try to do less of it, though I shall not diminish how much I think of you. Please write soon. I miss your voice terribly.

U.F.


	5. 8 May 1833

8 May 1833  
16 Rue Narbonne, Sommières

Fauchelevent—

I read your letter as soon as it arrived in the station-house—the pinnacle of my entire week, I confess. It is a dreary business here. Work has not been the same for me in quite some time, but in Sommières it is of a particularly stifling nature. My days are spent settling disputes between schoolboys and inspecting faulty pipes, mostly, and even when some matter of importance presents itself to me—where I might see justice done properly, where I might do as you would—I cannot find the same satisfaction I used to. It was a struggle in Paris, too, these past months, but my thoughts were occupied elsewhere. I was distracted, you might say, although distraction seems too petty a word for your tutelage, Fauchelevent. I did not know how much it meant to me until I arrived in Sommières and found myself suddenly bereft.

I have never before objected to my post, either, but now I cannot help but resent the stroke of fate (which you would call God’s will, naturally) that has obliged me to leave Paris, so that I may no longer enjoy the pleasure of your company. It is impossible to converse (or “squabble,” as you so aptly put it) with anyone here as we two have in your garden—not that I have tried, of course, but they would not understand. I may very well go mad without you here, you know. There are far too many dolts in Sommières, and far too many thoughts in my head that require untangling.

But you can rejoice, Fauchelevent, for the baker’s bread in Sommières is excellent. I do not ordinarily pass his shop on the way from my rooms to the station-house, but I started out earlier this morning, after reading your letter, and amended my route temporarily. The baker seemed very puzzled when I bought one of his brioche buns; perhaps he suspected, as most others in Sommières do, that it was merely a ploy to arrest him. Inspector Javert buying bread—inconceivable. I do not belong to any natural class in society, so the notion that I am not like others signifies little to me. Before I did not care because I found the company of men tiresome; now I find that their company could not possibly measure up to yours. How have our paths converged so many times, in so many different ways? Even now, when I write to you as a friend might, I remember how things used to be between us. It is very strange, you will admit, and I can think of no reason why I might have the privilege of your friendship except by the grace of God. Perhaps you will make a zealot of me yet.

But let us speak of more refined matters. It will not take very long, so I will sketch my day for you. I rise, leave my rooms, pass the millinery, nod to Madame Rossignol in the square, give a sou to the gamin outside the station-house (your influence), enter my office (very cramped, no windows), write reports, buy lunch from the café next door, occasionally tend to altercations in the station-house entrance hall, depart at eight o’clock, return to my rooms, read the newspaper, and sleep. There is no room for distraction or diversion.

Occasionally I have imagined how you might fare in Sommières if you were here. There is a small tavern near the station-house that might suit us nicely, for wine or chess or both; you could rent rooms in my building so that I might bore you late into the night with fulminations on the sorry state of the Sommières police. You and the bookseller would be fast friends, I am sure, and you would likely charm the baker into offering you a fresh loaf each morning, as I have seen him do with some young ladies of the town. There are certainly enough gamins here for you to feed and clothe, at any rate.

I have tried to notice green things for you, but they thrive only beyond our borders. I went walking in the fields yesterday before my shift, just as the sun was rising, and again I thought of you. Beauty is not easy for me to discern, but it was beautiful there, I admit—I only wish you had been there to see it with me, the tall grasses shivering in the wind, the sky like fire. I felt myself quite overcome, then, so I hurried back to my rooms at once.

Do not mind me; I am becoming sentimental in my old age, it seems. Your influence once more. Is your daughter doing well? Is her husband still a fool? What occupies you these days? Please spare me from the unceasing tedium of Sommières.

Javert

 

 


	6. 23 May 1833

23 May 1833  
55 Rue Plumet, Paris

Javert—

I have read your letter no less than thrice, and each time it has filled me with shock. You, offering sous to gamins and overcome by beauty? Perhaps this separation from me will do you some good—I have quite obviously exerted too much of a sentimental influence on you. The Javert I once knew (has it been two months already?) disdained fields and the sun and, more than anything, gamins. But, then, you have done nothing if not show yourself capable of change.

Is it foolish of me to pine for your letters so much as I do? Even when I have only just posted mine, I find myself sitting and hoping a new letter from you will suddenly be delivered. I do not want many things, but I am constantly wanting, wanting, wanting to hear from you again. Selfish, I know, but I think I have never felt so deprived as I do of your presence. I must remind myself that this is, as you noted, God’s will, and so I cannot hold contempt for His (or the prefect’s) plan. I shall simply have to be bereft of you for some time—though, admittedly, I pray each evening that time will be short.

Sommières sounds thoroughly pleasant, so of course it is unsurprising that you find it tedious. You paint a beautiful picture of it. I hope you will continue to seek out green things for me. There is so much beauty in the world, whether you believe it to be God’s design or man’s. And—though it may be vain to admit—I thrilled to read that you thought of me at dawn. It is good to know that I am still on your mind, especially when you are surrounded by such lovely things. It must have been quite stunning for such a stoic as you to feel overcome. I should like to have seen it myself.

Regarding Cosette and Baron Pontmercy—they are the same as ever, which I suppose you would insist means that the young baron is a fool. Whatever he may have been at the time of your departure, he remains. Busy, mostly, I think, but Cosette is happy with him, therefore I must be also. As for Cosette, she grows in beauty and grace and kindness each day. And she asks after you, now and then. I believe she recognizes the depth of our friendship and how much you mean to me. Occasionally, she surprises me with a visit for lunch, and we eat and she tells me of her reading and the bright, lively goings-on at the Gillenormand house. Such a life is not meant for me, with parties and servants and all of that. I much prefer things to be simpler, quieter. You and I share that, I think, at least in regards to simplicity.

I am occupied as I am always occupied—I pray in the mornings (I am awake before the sun rises most days, an old habit I cannot seem to break), I tend to the garden, I read, I walk by the river, I wish you were here. So many things we once did together now seem unappealing in your absence. I think I have read all my books twice over by now; it seems your letters are all I wish to read these days. At times, when I feel restless or I cannot sleep, I turn to what you have written me, and I am at peace. Peculiar, isn’t it?

You mentioned thoughts which require untangling. Will you share them with me? If you are comfortable doing so, of course. I often feel “tangled” myself. Strange, perhaps, but I feel somewhat directionless with you and Cosette gone, as though I am drifting in some open sea, with no shore in sight. I had thought when she married I would still have you to ground me. With the both of you gone, it is easy for me to sink into melancholy. Cosette is always inviting me to visit, and I do, but one can only visit so many times before one begins to feel like an obligation or a burden.

But I digress, and I do not mean to arouse any concern. I am fine, only lonely at times, and those bouts of loneliness are easily staved away by rereading your letters. Have I mentioned how truly grateful I am for this correspondence? It means more than I can possibly tell you, Javert.

I have wasted so many pages rambling on about myself! I hope you will forgive this offense. Please tell me more of Sommières, if you can bear the tedium. Do you miss Paris? It misses you, or at least I do. I should like to see you soon, if such a thing is possible. Perhaps, if you are not opposed to the idea, I might make the journey to Sommières in the future? I am forgetting the details of your scowl.

U.F.

P.S.—Do not think yourself unworthy of my company, or my companionship a privilege. I am but an old man, and you are my equal and, above all, my friend.

 


	7. 7 June 1833

7 June 1833  
16 Rue Narbonne, Sommières

Fauchelevent—

Do you know what today is? It will be long past when you receive my letter, so I do not know why I am noting it at all, but—I had nearly forgotten until I wrote the date here, at the top of the page, without thinking. I have never cared much for particular dates—it will not surprise you to learn that I do not recall my own birthday—but I remember June 7 well. One year ago on this very day, my life and soul were spared by a man who ought to have taken them—a man who I scarcely could have imagined would one day be my friend, not when I had bedeviled him for uncountable years. Forgive me, but I laughed when I read what you’d written in your last letter. I may be your friend, Fauchelevent, but I am not your equal. You are a far better man than I could ever hope to be.

I put down my pen just now to puzzle over the strangeness of how you can even bear to speak to me. You say you pine for my letters. Why? It does not stand to reason that you would desire my company. What can I ever be to you except an unchanging reminder of the past? There is much I have failed to understand since that night last year, but this, above all, confounds me.

I will say it. My thoughts are tangled around you—only you, as I suppose they have been for longer than I dare to admit. How can I crave your company so desperately when I am not worthy of it? You are a saint; I am hardly better than the devil. I strive to be better, it is true, but I am not. It is only because you think so little of yourself that you seek to assure me of our equality, but I see now that such a thing is impossible. Perhaps you are merely humoring me. Perhaps you are not. If I were an honorable man, I would demand you dissolve our association immediately; it is an unbalanced thing, skewed infinitely towards my own selfish interests. You bring me serenity, joy, absolution—things I have never felt before, things I have come to cherish. I fear I bring you nothing besides heartache and apprehension. I told you in my first letter that I would rather suffer untold violence than see you come to harm ever again, yet that is precisely what I have done by allowing myself to become your friend.

I remember we sat in your parlor one night months ago, perhaps early January, and read our books as the embers in the fire cracked and smoldered, splitting the silence. I had never before felt so utterly content. I finished my chapter and glanced over at you, asleep, and found the hour too late to read on. I did not know how to wake you, so I pressed your shoulder as gently as I could. I thought nothing more of it after I touched you, but you sprang awake immediately, gasping, looking up at me in terror as if I were the selfsame villain who haunted your dreams. (Do you dream of that place? Of me? You have never said, but I imagine you must. Do not answer that.) You apologized, of course, as you always do, and I dismissed it for the time being to set you at ease, but I have never forgotten how it felt to see you like that, afraid of me, repelled by my touch. 

If you wish to make the journey to Sommières, I will not stand in your way; for there is nothing I could possibly want more, and I would do anything in my power to abate your solitude. But I urge you, for your own sake, to let the misshapen thing that has arisen between us wither and die, as you would a flower languishing in the summer heat of your garden.

Javert


	8. 8 June 1833

8 June 1833  
16 Rue Narbonne, Sommières

To M. Ultime Fauchelevent—

If, by some miracle, you have not yet read the letter I wrote yesterday, I implore you to leave it unopened and throw it into the fire instead. If you have, I can only beg your forgiveness (which, it seems, is a practice that shall never cease).

You know very well that I venerate you—and always will—but the contents of that letter were reprehensible. They were unfair, moreover, and I am sorry. I knew they would inevitably cause you grief and more guilt than I am sure I can possibly fathom, but I did not care because I am a wretch. My foolish thoughts are my own private business to untangle and ought to be suppressed as such. Do not fret. You have done nothing wrong; you have no cause to believe that you have debased me or any such nonsense.

Your friendship is a gift that I was infelicitous to squander. I can only pray you will be good and kind enough to offer it to me once more. Curious, is it not, that I yearn for your company yet spurn it at every turn? Curious but unsurprising, I suppose—I have never been able to make sense of myself when you are near.

I have been in agony since I sent the regular boy to post my letter yesterday. Please, forgive me. If I stood before you now I would fall to my knees.

I promise to never again utter a word of idiocy if we return to corresponding about Pontmercy and bread and gardens. 

Javert


	9. 22 June 1833

22 June 1833  
55 Rue Plumet, Paris

Dear Javert—

Your letters have given me much to think about. Since I received them yesterday, I have been quite distraught, in all honesty. I hardly know where to begin. Please forgive the disorganized nature of this letter; I have not been able to put my thoughts in order.

To answer your first question—I have not forgotten the significance of June 7. There are many dates that are forever impressed on my mind, and June 7 is certainly included among them. I did not know, then, that in stopping you from committing that most grave act, I would gain my first real friend. We have discussed this many times, and you have occasionally expressed displeasure with my choice. But surely you know by now that it was not a choice for me at all. It was simply something which required doing—not my decision, but God’s alone. I have never intended to make you feel obliged to me in any way, and if I have ever affected any moral superiority for not allowing you to take your own life, then I must beg your forgiveness.

Your suggestions that we are not equals have alarmed me, Javert. Had I known that my actions have made you feel this way, I would have made every effort to amend them prior to your departure. Please know that I see you as my equal in every aspect. You are kind and good—things I admit I once thought you incapable of being. But since last summer, you have changed so much, and all for the better, I think. It is true that I do not think so highly of myself as you do of me, but I see no reason to. I am the same man I was all those years ago, when our paths first crossed at Toulon—a beast, a wretch. You, decidedly, are not the same as you were then. You are honorable, and you are good. If there is any inequality between us, it is that you have learned to bend where I remain static.

I cannot abide your comparisons of yourself to the devil. You say I have brought you serenity, joy, and absolution. How can any man who brings me the same be the devil? I fear that expounding on how deeply I cherish you and your friendship would be interpreted as an attempt to make you feel guilty, so I will try to be economical with my words: you are incomparably dear to me, and to picture my life without you in it only leads me to despair. This thing between us may be, as you have called it, misshapen, but it is true that all things are beautiful in the eyes of God.

I am a selfish man. I think of living out my remaining years without your companionship, and I believe a return to the galleys might be preferable. You cause me no pain, and you have done me no harm. It is unforgivable of me to have made you believe that was so. Your friendship has healed me. When Cosette became engaged to Baron Pontmercy, I thought, “This is all of Fauchelevent; this must be his end.” You did not allow me to wither away, as I so desperately wanted to. It was your friendship—you—that gave me reason to live. For that, I am eternally in your debt. You have given me uncountable gifts, not least of which is your company and this correspondence. When I first read your letter, I felt myself fall almost immediately into that grey pit of anguish. I could not (and cannot) bear the thought of never speaking to you again. I am sorry to use such heated language, but it is true. I am selfish, and I am lonely. Will you forgive me this?

The night you recall from this winter holds an exalted place in my memory. I felt at ease with you there, enough that sleep came naturally to me. That in itself is a rare occurrence—I have not slept soundly since my first night at Toulon. Therefore, I beg you, please do not take my behavior as a slight against you. Had it been Cosette or Baron Pontmercy or anyone else waking me, I would have reacted just the same.

You have told me not to answer this, but it is your right to know. Yes, my dreams are plagued with that place. I will spare you the unpleasant details and say only that in sleep, it is as if I have never left Toulon. It is a kind of torture I cannot fully explain. But, I will tell you—I do not see your face there. Perhaps that is the terror of it: I see no faces at all, only hear voices and anticipate a strike.

That is why I woke frightened. It was not your doing—your touch was gentler than any I have ever known. But I feared a beating then, as I always do, and I could not conceal it. I must ask your forgiveness for leading you to believe you had harmed me. I know, without doubt, that you would do no such thing. My fear of touch comes from no fault of yours, but my own. It seems I am destined to be afraid for the rest of my life. Such is the price of my sins.

Your second letter was unnecessary, as is your statement that you would fall to your knees and plead for my forgiveness. You have committed no offense, but rather brought these issues to light for me. For that, I must thank you. I have been hurting you so, all this time—I have been blinded by my own self-pity. Reading all of this, it comes as no surprise to me that you would have me end our friendship. What you have spoken is not idiocy; it is a painful truth I must confront. I have done you terribly, terribly wrong. I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I beg it of you nonetheless. If you choose not to respond to this letter, I shall understand fully.

A thousand apologies.

U.F.


	10. 10 July 1833

10 July 1833  
16 Rue Narbonne, Sommières

Fauchelevent—

I write this now after attempting to pray for the first time in my life. It was not entirely successful, but I felt so forlorn after reading your letter that I could see no other recourse. I prayed that God would forgive the most grievous sins I have committed against you; I prayed that He would illuminate a path forward for me in the depths of my despair. I know that my sins can never be washed away, so indelibly have they been engraved onto the souls of those I have wronged, but I can try to remedy them, perhaps—it is my dearest hope. I had never hoped for anything before you saved me, you know.

You have never hurt me or done me any wrong. How can you not see that it is the other way round, that I have only hurt and done wrong to you? As much as i cherish your company, sometimes I find you utterly exasperating. You must never beg my forgiveness, either. I will not allow it. And you are certainly not selfish for desiring my friendship, for it flatters me to imagine it might mean the same to you as it does to me.

Yet I refuse to believe that I saved you or gave you a reason to live. What I gave you, anyone could—you were merely unlucky enough to hit upon me as a companion, among all the lost souls on earth. Do you think I am the only one who would have pulled you back from despair? A ridiculous notion. What I believe is that I am a poor friend indeed, next to those who are practiced in the matter—I am not effusive or amiable; I speak my mind too plainly and think too narrowly. I doubt there is any man in France whose kindness and generosity equals your own, but you deserve a friend who comes closer than I do, at any rate.

But since you persist in arguing that you are a wretch and I am honorable and good—another ridiculous notion—I see that we are of the same mind in this, for there is no logic on earth that can reconcile such a fallacy. You cannot be unworthy of me while I am concurrently unworthy of you. There is no sense in that. My opinion of you—of your boundless goodness and your virtue—will never change, but for your sake, it appears I must acquiesce. You have given me a thousand chances to change, and I have squandered nearly all of them, but this one will be different. If I cannot change your opinion of yourself, at least I can put us into balance. We are equals, do you hear? There is no path forward without conceding this. But you must decide: if our hearts are the same in this, are we two good men, or two wretches?

And if my friendship is as dear to you as say, then perhaps it would only be cruel of me to dispossess you of it. I would never dream of hurting you further.

You have changed since Toulon—from the scant remembrances I recall, at least—but your soul has always been good and pure. I ought to hold my tongue since I fear hereafter you will only berate yourself for sharing, but it pained me to read your accounts of your dreams. I wish I could give you kinder ones. I wish you had been spared that horror. You never deserved it.

I am relieved to hear that you found my touch gentle—well, perhaps “relieved” is not the most suitable word. In truth, I am sorry that you fear touch of any kind, when you, of all men, should be treated with nothing but kindness and gentleness. Anything less is intolerable. Still, I do not think I have ever been called “gentle” before; such a thing does not come naturally to me, and I likely would have scoffed at the thought not long ago. But it is you who has made me so. What little good exists in me, you have cultivated. I had never seen reason to change before the bridge; now, with you, I yearn to be different than I was before.

If you only knew the pull on me you have, Fauchelevent. You could command me in any way, and I would do it without asking. I would do anything for you.

Forgive me, this is not what I mean to say.

I apologize if you can find no sense in this letter; I have not been able to make sense of this thing myself for some time. I only pray that one day you will come to see yourself as the good man you are. Until then, I wish you well. I would inquire after your garden, but such a query seems grossly ill-advised now. Do not feel you must respond to my letter, for I too will understand should you choose to dissolve our association.

Javert


	11. 25 July 1833

25 July 1833  
55 Rue Plumet, Paris

Javert—

Shall we ever escape this cycle of believing ourselves not good enough for one another? I suppose I cannot argue with your logic—but as I can hardly call you a wretch, I can hardly call myself a good man. Perhaps one day I may be able to believe that is true. For now, it only confounds me that you, who know all there is to know of me, can believe me to be good. Good people are not imprisoned for nineteen years. I am certain that is a fact.

Your suggestion that I might command you has left me concerned. Have I done such a thing and been so blind as not to realize it? You have insisted I not ask your forgiveness, but if I have commanded you to do anything you did not desire, then I must. I know what it is like to live one’s life at the hands of other men. It is hardly a life at all. I would never wish that on you.

Oh, Javert, that place has been on my mind too much recently. At times I find myself paralyzed with fear that I shall have to return there, disgracing Cosette in doing so. I cannot imagine what what it would do to her, and how it might compromise her marriage to Baron Pontmercy. I admit, it is not even the galleys that I fear (for what does a man my age need to fear of the galleys?) but simply what it might mean for her. Perhaps it might be welcome, to disappear quietly and live the rest of my days there.

Forgive me, it is not fair of me to suggest such things and expect you not to be concerned. I am fine. You worry far too much about me, you know? Sometimes I think I can feel it—the physical weight of the worries of one Inspector Javert, all the way from Sommières. The weight does not trouble me, never fear—indeed, it is a comfort to believe you might be thinking of me. But I am talking nonsense! Still, I wonder, do you you feel the weight of my worries for you? They must be very heavy, as you are always at the forefront of my thoughts. I hope I do not burden you unnecessarily.

That goes for all our interactions, not only my worries over you. I do not ever want to burden you with my letters or friendship. Please, I beg you, do not maintain this friendship out of any misguided sense of obligation. If you do not desire this, or me, you need only say so, and we shall put an end to it. As you know, I want no such thing, but if you do, then this must end.

I wonder, too, whether other friends are constantly debating whether or not their friendships ought to cease. But, then, I suppose most friendships are not like ours. Perhaps this is a wrongheaded thought on my part, but the uniqueness of our situation is precisely what makes it palatable and dear to me. That you know me so deeply and fully and still choose to call yourself my friend—it is inconceivable to me. But I will not question it. I know you believe yourself to be a poor friend, but I do not know one better. Yes, you do speak your mind plainly, and you are always blunt with your truths, but these characteristics do not count against you. It is these very characteristics which kept me from despair—you forced me to live. For that, I am grateful. And yes, I do believe you are the only one who could have saved me in that way. More and more often, it seems that we are in the business of saving one another.

I think in time, perhaps with your assistance, I shall learn not to fear touch. Perhaps as I cultivate gentleness in you (as you have suggested I do), you shall cultivate bravery in me. I do not think I have ever been brave, but with you, I think it not so impossible.

I long to be all the things you believe me to be—kind, good, brave, honorable. For so long, these have seemed foreign to me, things I am not capable of being. But your undying belief in me does provide a kind of strength. I only hope I do not let you down.

We have not spoken of this in several letters now, but it is again on my mind. Might I come visit you in Sommières in the near future, perhaps near summer’s end? Paris is simply unbearable without you in it. When I walk in the mornings, I think only of walks I made with you, with pleasant conversation and warm silences. The silence is not the same when you are not present.

Similarly, my garden seems to bloom less vividly in your absence, as if it too knows you are missing. It is still beautiful, though—I so wish you could see it! In lieu of you visiting my garden, I have included a small piece of it for you (no doubt you have seen it by now): the last of my forget-me-nots, pressed between the pages of First Corinthians. An appropriately-named flower to send to you, and a very lovely one, too.

I meant to conclude this letter here, but I am still puzzling over the logic problem you have presented. Are we two wretches or two good men? I propose a third option—we are two old fools. That is incontrovertible truth. But, if that answer is insufficient, I suppose you leave me no choice but to say that we are two good men. Or, if I may modify that, we are two men trying to be good. I think that is all any of us can ever really do.

Your friend,  
U. Fauchelevent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [ tvglow ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tvglow) for the beautiful illustration! You'll see more of them as the story progresses.


	12. 9 August 1833

9 August 1833  
16 Rue Narbonne, Sommières

Fauchelevent—

Thank you for the flower. It is very beautiful. I have laid it out on my desk so that I may look upon it when I am writing and think of you. But I feel your presence most keenly when I am out walking in the evenings—there, where I see things alive and growing, unfettered by the whims of man, I can imagine you best. This flower is beautiful, yes, but it is also dead, which you are not. Were it possible to capture your spirit in a token, I would prefer something warm and green, something blooming in the sun, not a pressed flower.

That is not to say, of course, that I am ungrateful for your gift; on the contrary, I am much obliged. I would wear it in my lapel if it would not incite stares at the station-house. But this flower is a mere trifle next to all the things I know you to be—I do not require it to forget-you-not.

I have not forgotten how troubled you are, either. I wish you would never think or dream of that place again. A idle wish, of course, since it has irreparably scarred the body and soul of a man who deserved better. But if I cannot heal you myself (as I would also wish to do), I can swear to you that you will never return there. I very much doubt there is any man of the police in France more foolish than me, who even now keeps your image in his mind, but if such a thing came to pass I would sooner die than see you in chains again. This is my sacred promise to you: as long as I live, your daughter will be happy and you will be free.

You say that good people are not imprisoned for nineteen years—two years ago, I would have concurred. But now I see that the law is flawed, that one can do good outside the law and evil within it. It is necessary to prevent man from reverting back to the chaos of nature, that much is true, yet I have learned that what is lawful is not always right. You have committed many crimes under the law, but you are still a good man.

No one who knows you would be glad to see you returned to that place, Fauchelevent. Your daughter and Pontmercy would grieve terribly, and I would—I scarcely know what I would do. I daresay it would be a trial to endure the rest of my days.

I wish, too, that you knew how cherished you are. The gamins cluttering the alleys around Saint-Sulpice would miss you should you be made to leave Paris. The ducks in the Tuileries would miss the crumbs you lavish on them. The bookseller on the rue Legendre would miss your conversation and your patronage. The old mother who frequents the tavern near La Force would miss your coins and your kindness. Even the weeds in your garden would miss how gently you uproot them. As for me—what I would miss is too great to enumerate here.

It is hard enough speaking to you through these damned letters, where everything I mean to say becomes twisted and obscured. Were our correspondence cut off entirely, I would be at my wit’s end. Therefore, if you do not wish to be responsible for my descent into lunacy, I urge you to put these thoughts of returning to that place out of your mind at once.

You worry me, I confess, but it is not a burden—never a burden. That you, of all men, should be plagued by sorrow and trepidation when you have relieved the same burden from so many others, when the only remaining threat to your happiness is the shadow of your own past… Sometimes I worry, too, that nothing I say is enough. But if our communication serves, at the least, as a silly diversion from your thoughts of duress, I will be satisfied. To return the smallest measure of happiness to you that you have given to me—it would please me greatly.

Perhaps I erred in writing that you command me. My life is yours, but I would not have you burdened by the weight of my soul. You have never asked anything of me that I would not give willingly, nor have you ever compelled me without my consent. It is risible to even imagine such a thing. It is only that… I fear I cannot put words to this, for you will likely think me a fool. The way in which you command me is not that of an officer, who bids his men move left or right on a whim, but rather in the way that the Earth revolves unceasingly and immutably around the sun. Who can say why it heeds this endless path, except by the grace of God? Were the sun to shift its place in the sky, the Earth would not require an entreaty to follow suit; its course would be changed instantaneously, without question, simply because we could never conceive of a universe where the Earth does not obey the movements of the sun.

But enough of this folly. How is the summer heat treating you and your garden in Paris? It has been devilishly hot in Sommières these past weeks. I have not felt so utterly stifled since I was very young. I told you once that I was born not very far from here, where the weather seemed to alternate eternally between searing and sweltering. (You know this well, certainly, given your time in the south of France. If it pains you to speak of that place, forgive me—it need never be broached again.) By the time I was old enough to work, the heat did not bother me; I had striven to be irreproachable, and that meant I could not afford to be agitated by trivial things like sweat or thick wool uniforms. But while I was young, when my mother was alive, every moment the sun bore down on me seemed an interminable stretch of agony. She would wipe my face with the cleanest linens we had (which were naturally not particularly clean at all), dipped in water, and tell me to play in the shade, but I did not listen; I preferred the austerity of the sunlight, where the crimes of my parents and the shame of my lineage could not be shrouded or swept away.

I never loved my mother, though I suppose she was as good as any other; she fed and cared for me as well as she was able despite the ignominy of our circumstances. Even as I grew to detest her ways—especially her liaison with my ignoble father that produced an equally ignoble child—I felt myself indebted to her for having raised me at all. She could have thrown me to the wolves and none would be the wiser.

I have not thought of her in many years. The last time I did, I cursed her scheming and thieving and thanked God for our estrangement, and now here I am reminiscing with nary a shred of acrimony. I am certain it is your influence. Do you remember your parents well? I cannot recall how long they lived from the reports we collected.

I have learned more facts of your life from your official file than from your lips, which is a violation I cannot bring myself to remedy by effacing them from my memory, yet there is still so much you have never shared that I wish to hear—and so I know too much and too little of you all at once. It is a strange quandary indeed.

What I do know for certain is that you are kind, good, brave, and honorable, though you may not believe it. I have never lied to you before and I have not begun the practice now.

I am glad to hear that you feel I cultivate bravery in you (although you are already brave enough for a hundred men), but it seems to me that you require the rejuvenation of a long journey to the south—it would do your constitution wonders, I think. There is an old fool in Sommières who requests the pleasure of your company.

Your friend,  
Javert


	13. 25 August 1833

25 August 1833  
55 Rue Plumet, Paris

Javert—

You flatter me, so much so that I find it overwhelming. All this talk of my “being cherished” and how much I would be missed—I cannot fathom it. Surely you know I think the same of you? That I would be heartbroken if our correspondence were to cease? Your letters provide more than a silly diversion, as you called it; they warm me more than this maddeningly hot sun ever could. 

Let me try to ease your mind. I know my thoughts of that place concern you. So, since receiving your letter, I have tried not to think of it. An impossible task, as I am sure you understand, but I remembered your words when the thoughts entered my mind, when going back there seemed a terrible inevitability. For what reason these thoughts occur, I do not know, only that dread often finds its way into me when I do not expect it. I wondered who might drop coins into the gamins’ palms, or exhaust the bookseller with inquiries as to when the latest Goethe might be available. It seemed a ridiculous exercise, to think of myself outside of myself, and to wonder at how my absence would affect these figures who drift in and out of my life each day. 

But when I thought of how your absence has affected me, and how I feel it everywhere I go, I thought perhaps I understood how my not being here could leave a small but empty space in some lives. Would someone else feed the ducks? Would my garden become overgrown with weeds and vines? And would you find another sad old man to write to? I do not want to think of it. So I shall not. 

I confess, I am still unnerved by your suggestion that you follow me as the earth follows the sun. You are your own man, Javert, your life ought not revolve around mine. Perhaps there is some truth in what you say, as the lines of our lives have always found a way to intersect. But that should not make me the center of your universe, nor does it make you merely a distant planet in mine. 

When I was at Toulon (no more of this "that place" business—to avoid its name is to fear it) you were my superior, that cannot be denied or changed. And at Montreuil, I was yours. We have commanded each other enough in the past. Here and now, we are equals. You have resisted being called such, but it is how I think of you. Rather than the sun and the earth, let us say we are like Jupiter and Saturn, whose positions in the sky keep one another on course. If one were gone, surely the other would spin wildly out of its orbit. But they exist separately, held gently in the sky according to a heavenly plan.

I do not think I have ever heard you speak of your family at such length before. Will you think less of me if I say your recollections of your childhood made me laugh? Forgive me, I do not mean to diminish the gravity of your distaste for your upbringing, but I can hardly imagine you as a child at all, much less one already casting away the circumstances of your birth. I thought perhaps this was something you came to later in life. To know that you have been this way since you emerged from the womb is somewhat amusing (and thoroughly endearing) to me. 

I am glad your mother did not throw you to the wolves. She raised you well, I think, given the circumstances. At any rate, you survived long enough to become my friend, which is plenty for me. 

It does not pain me to speak of my childhood, but I fear any discussion of it will disappoint you. I do not recall much, but what I do, I will recollect here. My father was a tree-pruner at Faverolles, as I later became, and my mother—I do not remember her at all, save her hands on my face and patting my head when I was very, very young. She died when I was still a boy, and so my father was left to take care of me and my elder siblings, Jeanne and my brother. In my old age, I have forgotten my brother's name, but I hardly knew him. 

There was not much time for play in those days, and I do not recall having friends. My father worked long days, and he would come home with thorns and dirt in his palms. He was very busy and always very tired, but he was kind, and in the few empty hours after work, he would sit with Jeanne and me, carving animals from scraps of wood with a blunt knife, and tell us stories of knights and dragons. He was a good man. After he died, Jeanne and her husband raised me and her many children, seven of them. And when her husband passed—too young; I remember Jeanne weeping for weeks after—I did what I could to take care of them. 

It was not an easy life. I have not seen Jeanne or my brother in decades now. At Toulon, I was once told that Jeanne lived in Paris. In all my years, I have never thought to search for her. I would not know her if I saw her. The years have been so long, and so unkind to all of us. 

You need not chastise yourself for knowing of my past through my file. Such is the nature of our friendship. Whatever else you wish to know, you may ask of me, and I will be happy to tell. 

I leave for Sommières in two days, on the 27th. With any luck, I shall be at your doorstep before the first week of September passes. I can hardly wait to see you again. You cannot possibly know how much I miss you. 

Fauchelevent


End file.
